My Body Is A Cage, But My Mind Holds The Key
by malachite-memoirs0815
Summary: Connor is a technological engineer working on perfecting the Animus project, when he is granted first hand experience of its work on "Subject 200" also known as Markus. But as the pair of them delve into the history of Markus' Brotherhood ancestors, secrets come to light, dangerous discoveries are made and somehow along the way, hearts are exchanged. Assassins Creed AU.
1. Connor Stern: Technological Engineer

The languid legato of a violin concerto echoed around the frosted glass walls of the laboratory, originating from the old-fashioned docking system dwarfed amongst the rest of the machinery where an incredibly scuffed once-blue iPod sat persevering through a now familiar playlist despite the early hour of the morning. The majority of the laboratory was taken over by a large ergonomically shaped examination table, clearly designed for its extended periods of usage; the thick coaxial cables that had originally remained hidden beneath the chassis of the machinery connecting monitors to transmitters were now snaked across the slate tiled flooring, whilst various components, processors and circuitries lay scattered like forgotten Christmas gifts. Yet despite this, Connor had somehow managed to not only find enough space to sit comfortably but to fan out blueprints, data sheets and printouts around him on the floor.

Fingers tapping idly against his kneecap on the beat as the next movement of music began with an up-tempo staccato display of the unknown musician's dexterity, Connor took a moment to blindly reach for his flask of coffee and swallow a large mouthful before returning to his work. His eyes, narrowed and sharp, scanning rows upon rows of painstakingly typed coding, trying to find something—anything—that could be adjusted without ruining the overall functionality of the systems. He was close to finding it, he knew he was, and he was determined to find it tonight, even as his eyes started to burn from the strain.

Ever since he'd graduated with honours from University, proudly holding a double major in Computer Engineering and Computer Science, Connor had felt like he was starting to climb the walls in boredom from a lack of mental stimulation when he moved from job to job over the years as each one failed to mentally satisfy him. His Mother, sick of coming home to find various appliances, tablets and computer devices in pieces because he'd torn them apart simply to put them back together again, managed to secure him a job at her company researching a way to enhance and perfect their technology. She had originally suggested it simply to placate his need for intellectual activities with the hopes he would get his fill during the day and become less of a nuisance at home; she probably hadn't quite meant for him to be holed up at 3am running on caffeine, on the verge of pulling his hair out because he just couldn't see where the issue was.

Connor had always held a fascination for the work of the company his Mother worked for, his extensive intelligence and need for stimuli had led to Connor branching out into various fields throughout his educational years; teaching himself languages and conducting little scientific experiments, learning to play a variety of instruments and delving deep into history. And it had been the last one which had led Connor to an article debating the potential of Abstergo Industries attempts to extract ancestral memories from a subject's DNA and utilising them to get personal insights of history, the likes of which have never been achieved before. The name of the company had leapt out at him, and it had been with a strangely emotional lump in his throat, that Connor had raced to his Mother's study and rather unceremoniously stuffed the holopad displaying the article under her nose and asked if it was the company she worked for.

She'd quickly confirmed his queries and had even offered to let him take a look at the coding and blueprints for the machinery they'd been using for years to see what he thought of them, without him needing to ask. Of course, at age 17 Connor hadn't quite realised it had been a test, even as his Mother placed everything across the table in front of him like an intellectual feast and perched almost regally opposite him. Not even as she'd so readily given up confidential answers to his curious questions, her eyes glinting when Connor had grabbed his holopad and started to make annotations on what he would potentially change to have the programs working more efficiently—and that had been before he'd even started University.

The idea of the "Animus", as his Mother later informed him of its project name, was absolutely fascinating to him. Memories extracted from a person's DNA, through their genetics passed down from generation to generation, using that to search back hundreds or potentially thousands of years to find out where they really came from, to experience first-hand what life was like in those ancestral times and to aid in the development of a greater historical understanding of the world. The potential was endless, all those minute details that were lost in history: colloquialisms and stereotypes, personal things that were not deemed important enough to scholars, philosophers or artists of the time and consequentially lost forever, could be re-discovered.

So, when the opportunity to join the company had been presented to him, with the stipulation that his role would solely focus around the Animus project, Connor had almost ripped his Mother's hand off in his eagerness to agree. All Connor wanted was to help history expand the way technology had, it was 2038 and yet there was still so much that was impossible to work out in history. So many mysteries still remained unsolved: where was Cleopatra buried? Who was Jack the Ripper? Who actually killed JFK? Did Atlantis ever exist? And Connor was determined to solve them all. And now, as his ID badge proudly stated 'Connor Stern: Technological Engineer and Lineage Acquisition Programmer', he could potentially do that. However, he hadn't been granted access to the previous subjects involved in the project, so whilst he was trying to find what could be altered to ease the acquisition and exploration of the DNA memories, he didn't truly have any data on what needed altering and that was where his frustration lay.

As the staggered pattern of detaché style notes suddenly cut off mid-bar, Connor's head snapped up in aggravation, a curse forming across his lips as the instantaneous ringing silence cut off his train of thought just as swiftly, only for it to promptly drop into oblivion at the form stood framed inside the now open doorway. His Mother, stood draped in the long flowing multi-layered satin of her tunics, in shades that complimented the cool almost silver undertones to her rich brown skin; the deep fires in the smoky quartz jewels of her eyes and the meticulously braided charcoal of her hair only adding to the constant regal elegance of her figure as she peered down at him in disapproval.

"Connor, what are you doing?" She questioned, the tone of her voice almost cutting through him like a knife despite the lack of force or volume behind it. He was almost thirty-one years old and yet that lilt to her voice still made him feel like a pre-pubescent being scolded for not doing his homework on time. "It is nearly four in the morning, and you're broadcasting this cheap imitation of an Antonio Vivaldi masterpiece without any kind of consideration for the rest of the staff still working."

"Excuse me, Professor Stern. But I made sure to adjust the insulation of the room accordingly before I allowed my music to start playing. The docking system is running at sixty percent of what it normally does during official working hours and the nearest co-worker is two corridors away and often uses sound cancelling headphones to help himself concentrate on his work." Connor explained as he scrambled to his feet, slightly less smoothly than anticipated as his legs protested from being curled under him for so long, knowing better than to refer to the woman as 'Mother' when she was visiting him at work. Even if he was off the clock.

His Mother didn't speak for a moment, her shoulders rolling back slightly as she drew herself up defensively at the fact he'd had the gall to answer her back without so much as an apology, before Connor watched as her eyes flitted around the frosted walls of the laboratory and round onto the small electronic panel screen beside her at the door informing everyone who looked at it, that the room was now fully sound-proof insulated. A sharp exhale from the strong line of her nose is the only indication she's accepted his explanation before she was turning her focus solely back onto him once again.

"That still does not tell me what you are doing here at four in the morning when you supposedly finished at 9pm yesterday and aren't due back in until 9am today." She repeated, the bite to her words lessening as she allowed her arms to unfold and to gracefully manoeuvre to rest on Connor's shoulders in a rare sign of concern. "You have been warned before about the dangers of overworking yourself, and if your health takes another setback I will have to discontinue your involvement with this project."

"What?! No Amanda—You can't do that! Not when I'm so close to perfecting the program!" Connor's heart clenched tightly in his throat as he moved to quickly clasp her hands beneath his, taking them from his shoulders to hold them close to his chest as he intertwined their fingers, stepping closer to his Mother, his own Umber brown eyes shining as he pleaded silently with her, not missing the way her gaze lowered to the contrasting hue of his pale ivory fingers curled around her own.

That was another reason Connor hadn't succeeded in perfecting the software yet; his health. Ever since he'd been a young child he had suffered with his lungs and immune system, having to be home schooled with private tutors for vast amounts of his childhood because he had simply been too ill to risk leaving the house for up to ten hours a day for school. But with the familiarity of his problems, came an almost resigned apathy from his Mother, where she became so accustomed to him rapidly becoming ill that it stopped worrying her and she simply stepped away for a few moments to notify the school and organise his tutors once again, before she was sweeping off to work in a swirl of satin without so much as a backwards glance to his bed-ridden frame.

In fact, the only time he could recall seeing her worried about him had been when the new Sports teacher at School had refused to accept he was too ill to participate, called him a liar trying to get out of class, and promptly forced him to join in with the long run around the School campus. It hadn't taken long for him to realise Connor was telling the truth once the young boy had promptly collapsed to the floor wheezing, his chest rattling as his lips turned blue from lack of oxygen, and it hadn't been long before he'd been fired once Amanda came blazing into the nurses room where an Ambulance crew were working on trying to stabilise Connor and verbally ripped the poor man to shreds for his idiocy and demanded he be removed from the School. Yet, once again, when Connor was back home and feeling much better in himself, she simply left him to it and placed the phone within arms reach in case he needed to contact the emergency services should he have a relapse. So, it was strange to see her so concerned in that moment when he was feeling rather well in himself for a change.

Amanda had never been particularly driven by maternal instinct. For the majority of his childhood, Connor could barely recall referring to her by the moniker of Mother, choosing to instead simply called her by her given name and not seeing anything wrong with such an act even as the rest of the students—and some of the teachers and parents—gasped in horror at the idea of a child doing so. She wasn't his Mother, so he had not seen the need to call her so, and Amanda had not seemed to wish to be referred to by such a title either, even after she made it official and adopted him into her family name.

Connor had come to her before he'd had time to properly settle into his first year of Kindergarten, bruised and shaken, wanting his Mother even though his young intelligent mind had already started to comprehend why she wasn't here and why he was now with this strange woman. As he'd gotten older, he'd slowly been drip-fed information about his former life; his parents and himself had been driving towards the Canadian border to visit friends for the Christmas holidays when the car behind them had skidded on black ice and slammed into the back of their car, causing his Father to lose control and slip across the frozen road, only to break through the barrier separating road from hillside, the car had tumbled towards the frozen river, smashed through the ice despite how solid it should have been at that time of the year and rapidly started to sink.

Connor didn't have any recollection of the accident, nothing remained except a lingering dislike of ice cold water, but Amanda had eventually confided in him that the car had been submerged for an incredibly long time, his Father had died on impact crushed beneath the crumpled front of the car where it had concertinaed back in on itself, whilst his Mother and he had been trapped, battered and broken as the water steadily filled the vehicle. The coastguard had been quick to respond, but the time it took for them to get into the necessary hypothermia prevention gear had allowed the car to completely fill with water that at its warmest temperature was just below freezing. Both Connor and his Mother had fallen unconscious by the time the divers reached them, and being a child, his retrieval had been prioritised, which had unfortunately left his Mother to suffer from irreparable damage that had ultimately claimed her life a few days later in Hospital.

Connor had remained unconscious for nearly two weeks, battling pneumonia and sepsis, body damaged from severe hypothermia and broken bones; but his young body was resilient and untainted by toxic substances that adults liked to fill their bodies with, and before long had started to show signs of improvement. But the whole experience had left him without a fully functioning immune system, weak bodied, asthmatic and prone to viruses and infections potentially for the rest of his life. The only reason he'd been given into Amanda's care was that he had no extended family, and the only other family friends were up in Canada and couldn't afford another child to care for. She'd clearly not wanted a child, even Connor at the tender age of five had been able to see that, but she'd still taken him in and kept him well fed, warm and safe and let him grow in a secure environment with the proper care in place for whenever he was at his lowest health wise. She might not have ever been overly affectionate towards him, and had only really started to take a proper interest in him when it became apparent that his IQ and general intelligence were far above average for his age, but she had gone out of her way to commission the pharmaceutical branch of Abstergo industries to create medication for him to help with his health issues. And that's what mattered to Connor in the end.

"You keep saying you are close to perfecting it Connor, and yet I am not seeing any results." Amanda's voice turned sharp once again as she detangled her fingers from his own, her eyes narrowing in on the organised chaos of information scattered around them. "I'm starting to think this is too much for you to handle."

"No! It's not that. Amanda I—Professor Stern, I've requested on numerous occasions to be allowed to observe the Animus in use to see how the program properly worked, but yet you have refused my requests. How am I supposed to adjust it if I cannot see how it needs adjusting?" Connor sighed as he ran his fingers back through his hair, this argument had been going on ever since he joined the company, yet his Mother had remained stubborn in her refusal to let him observe a session. "If I'm not allowed to observe the Animus in work, can I at least test it out myself?"

"Absolutely not!" The venomous reaction to his question had Connor taking a slight step backwards in surprise, having not expected such a response from the usually stoic woman. "You are not healthy enough to use the program, it puts a lot of strain on a subject's physicality and you would not be able to cope. I will not have a repeat of your childhood Connor!"

"I—My apologies Amanda. I just know that I will be able to adjust the systems and coding and software if I could see how they actually interact and work with each other when a subject is exploring their lineage." He spoke softly as he shifted to play with the line of his work lanyard tucked beneath the material of his sweater to prevent it from swinging in his face, needing something to occupy his fingers whilst he tried to ignore the thick disappointment settling in his stomach at the idea that he'll never get to experience the Animus for himself. "Please. I promise I will only need one observation and I'll be able to use the printouts with much more efficiency and be able to upgrade the software."

Without another word, Amanda turned and plucked a discarded holopad from the desk beside her, fingers delicately dancing across the screen and letting Connor suffer in silence for a few moments. His curiosity starting to creep out as he watched and waited to see what was going on, hating how his fidgeting only got worse the longer she left his plea hanging in the air between them but not daring to try and break the silence once again without permission.

However, as she handed the holopad to him, the page changing from the security access check screen to a new subject file, his eyes widened in surprise, not quite daring to hope that she was doing what he thought she was doing.

"You have permission to observe the first session with this new subject. He will be coming in tomorrow and is scheduled to be submerged in the Animus at nineteen hundred hours. I am granting you a great lenience here Connor, do not disappoint me because there will not be a second chance for this." Amanda stated smoothly, before turning on her heel and stepping out of the laboratory, pausing before the door slid shut behind her to glare over her shoulder at him, a glare almost as strong as her parting words. "Now get home and go to sleep."

"I-I will! I promise!" Connor called out to the room, his words ineffectual due to the sound-proofing preventing the sound from reaching his Mother on the other side of the door, but needing to voice his gratefulness regardless. Glancing down at the holopad, Connor couldn't help the giddy giggle escaping him as he let his shaking fingers swipe along the screen to read over the information profile of who had been titled 'Subject 200', pausing to focus on the headshot at the top of the screen once he'd finished reading.

The male in question was six years older than him, skin a warm tawny golden-brown, hair shaved close to his scalp, combined with a strong jaw lightly dusted with stubble to give him an almost intimidating air, Connor having to take a second glance when he registered that the subject's left eye was green and the right eye blue. A rarity that somehow seemed to fit into the man's face and gave him an air of uniqueness and mystery and had Connor curious to see if heterochromia was a trait that was prevalent amongst his ancestors as well.

Gathering his stuff together, Connor almost reverently tucked the holopad into his bag before doing what he promised Amanda and finally heading back home, being careful not to jostle things too much in case he lost the profile access, whilst simultaneously trying to move as fast as he could possibly manage without looking suspicious, especially with how sensitive the information he'd been given was. It wasn't until he'd finished sliding into the front seat of his car and setting it to auto-drive home before he risked retrieving the tablet once again, unlocking it and sighing in relief as the profile once again flashed onto the screen; setting it aside to retrieve his personal holopad which he always kept on him to make notes on and opening it to a new document with the intention of creating himself a checklist of potential things to watch out for whilst observing. Taking his time to carefully type out the man's name as a heading, pressing each letter slowly as if expecting everything to be revealed as him waking from a dream with each syllable he completed. Letting out an irrational puff of air that he'd been holding to try and calm his nerves, Connor smiled as he stared down at the man's name now typed out to completion at the head of his list, knowing tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

Markus Manfred.


	2. Markus Manfred: Art Therapist

The Manfred family studio sat neatly in the Southern corner of the large, eccentrically decorated estate, the two outer walls replaced with full-length heavy purpose windows that allowed the sunlight to fully encompass the room as it travelled across the sky throughout the day. It had been the birthing place of many a Carl Manfred masterpiece, the homeland of the "Neo-Symbolism Movement" that made him into a household name, and in later years it had helped him nurture his son's talent as it blossomed into his own style. The paint splattered flooring resembled a Jackson Pollock canvas, yet held many a story of hours spent lost in his muse, of palettes thrown in frustration, of gleeful giggling paint fights that he could barely remember how they started. And now, as Carl guided his wheelchair towards a half-finished canvas, the flooring now held the various finger paintings of his Son and the young girl at his side.

Hearing the mechanical whir of his wheelchair's motor as it guided him across to the corner of the studio, his son's attention shifted and a pair of warm, curious, bi-coloured eyes lifted from their observations to focus on his journey across the studio.

"Carl, you should have said you wanted to come paint, I would have wheeled you through." his son softly scolded, shifting from where he was propped up on one hand against the floor about to get to his feet to help his Father.

"Nonsense, I can drive this thing just fine by myself Markus, out of the two of us I'm the one who has his driver's license after all." Carl retorted as he paused to gather his palette and a portable box of paint tubes from his table before carrying on his journey towards his current project. "I simply wanted to join in the fun—as long as our guest is okay with that?" he added, directing the last words towards the young girl now sat staring at him from what had rapidly become _her_ spot on his studio floor. He allowed the silence to descend after his question, letting himself be scrutinised by dark, obsidian eyes that shifted like black Calla Lilies in the wind—set just a little too far back in too sunken a face that wasn't right for someone so small to have—before he allowed himself a smile of gratitude as she nodded her acceptance and promptly disappeared from sight as she ducked her head, causing the curtain of her long, chestnut brown ponytail to swing in as a protective barrier.

Once he noticed her returning to her finger painting, Carl allowed his focus to turn towards his canvas. He hadn't been lying about wanting to paint, after being paralysed from the waist down at the height of his career and sinking into a horrendous rut of depressive and toxic states of mind, it had been Markus' own growing talent that had started to re-inspire his inner muse until he was finally able to work comfortably again, and nowadays he took the opportunity to paint whenever the inspiration hit him for fear of losing it before he could harness it properly. However, that didn't mean he was willing to impose on the young girl's therapy session to do so, he would have let the idea crumble into the dust of his aged mind if she hadn't been okay with his presence, not when Markus put so much effort into helping her.

"You've drawn a house, Alice? Is this the house you'd like to live in? Should we draw who is going to live there now?" Markus' voice carried across the otherwise almost-silent studio despite the hushed tone to his words, once again leaning on his hand as he relaxed and let the girl work, lowering his head to hear her better as she answered his questions in a voice too soft for Carl to make out.

The first time Alice had been in the studio Markus had spent the majority of the session trying to work out the best way to get her creating, testing out various mediums and base surfaces to see what she took a shine to. It had quickly become apparent that as long as she had someone to create with, who would give her all the attention and focus she needed and desired, then she was happy to try anything. And so Carl had been drafted in to help. Alice liked the attention, yes, but she also enjoyed the company of having someone else being artistic at the same time in the same room, almost as if to remind her that she was allowed to do so. It gave Carl chance to work on his pieces and allowed Alice to become braver and bolder with her own art so he couldn't find a reason to say no to the arrangement.

Shifting slightly as the hand he was leaning on started to tingle with the telltale signs of numbness, Markus watched attentively as Alice continued to paint in slow deliberate strokes of her tiny fingers across the floor. His mismatched eyes didn't miss the way she bit into her lower lip as she drew, or the way she took extra care in creating an artistic version of herself in front of the freshly painted house, only to hesitate as to who to draw next. Alice had been referred to him after a string of failed attempts by various therapists, none of whom had been able to get her to open up to them regardless of what method they'd tried, and Alice had simply sat in silence throughout the session until her foster mother Kara took her back home, quietly promising she'd find someone Alice was comfortable with.

There had—understandably so—been some trepidation on Kara's side when she'd first brought Alice to the estate for her first visit, no-one really paid attention to traditional art nowadays, it was 2038 and why would people waste time using actual paints on actual paper when they could do the same thing much faster and less messy with a graphics tablet and stylus pen? Plus despite the year, there was still a lot of prejudice amongst the psychological community about the validation of art therapy as a form of psychiatry. Maybe it was the stubbornness he inherited from his Father, but all that had only made Markus gravitate more towards the idea of studying to become an Art Therapist, determined to share the sense of relief and escapism art provided with others who struggled verbally to explore their problems.

And for Kara, it had only taken that first visit watching Alice re-emerge from the studio into the lounge that doubled as a waiting area for Markus' clients to convince her; seeing a smile on her tiny face as she talked softly to Markus using more words in a single sentence than she normally spoke all day and with a comfort and familiarity she never achieved with any other therapist. So now, every week found Alice in the studio drawing, painting, collaging various pictures together as Markus slowly encouraged and supported her opening up about her problem, often taking an interest in Carl's artwork as much as her own.

"Should I draw Kara?" Alice's soft voice questioned nervously as her paint smudged fingers hovered above the painting she'd started.

"You seem reluctant Alice. Do you not like the idea of living with Kara?" Markus responded just as gently, pushing up from his leaning position to cross his legs in front of him and letting his hands drift to rest the backs against his knees as if he were about to meditate. A conscious choice to look open and focused as they shifted to the more verbal part of their session.

"I-I do. Kara is nice, she makes me tasty food and lets me have ice cream once a week after School. She helps me with my homework too." the young girl's voice stuttering slightly in her haste to speak.

"That does sound nice. What else does Kara do that you like?" Markus added, leaning forward slightly to bring himself closer to Alice's level that he'd lost in repositioning.

"She lets me be quiet," Alice whispered, twisting her fingers together and smudging the paint everywhere. "She asks how School is and if I've got any friends, she asks if I enjoyed my classes. Things like that, I like."

"Those do sound like good things. But you don't seem that eager to draw her in this nice house of yours. Can you tell me why?" Markus questioned carefully, one hand reaching for his notebook in case he needed to make reference notes.

"M-My Dad used to do things like that too. Before he..." Alice began before her little voice tapered off into a slightly shaky breath and another nervous finger twist.

"I see, and you're scared that Kara may become the same as him?" Markus enquired, to which Alice simply nodded in response. And that was the cusp of it. Alice may only be nine years old, but she had spent the majority of her childhood being abused and mistreated by her Father until the Child Protection Services took her away almost a year ago. They had quickly found a foster home for her with Kara, and whilst the woman had been calm, soft and patient with the young child, it had quickly become clear Alice would need some form of professional help to deal with her experiences, that no amount of a loving household and foster family could fix by themselves.

"Well..." Markus began, checking his watch to see how long they had left. "...how about we set a little project. I'll gather some magazines and stuff and you can make a collage. Half of it will be things that remind you of Kara, the other half your Father. Then we can compare them hmm? And we can see how your Father and Kara are different. Because different to your Father is good right?"

At Alice's tentative nod, seemingly more concerned with dedicating something artistic to her Father more than anything else, Markus got to his feet in one languid movement and strolled across to his materials boxes. Every time he had the opportunity to do so, Markus collected magazines, newspapers and books of various genres, a task that was getting increasingly more difficult with everyone's penchant for electronic versions, but one he stuck to relentlessly; digital was all well and good, but nothing could give you the satisfaction that completing a physical collage with scissors and glue and your hands could as far as Markus was concerned.

Grabbing a couple of his boxes, Markus made his way back to where Alice was now carefully painting a large dog outside her dream house, settling down once again at her side and starting to empty the collection onto the floor, handing her a large sketchbook page to act as the base for her collage. And for the rest of the session, Markus helped the young girl cut various pictures and texts up and glue them down on either side of the collage, Kara's side soon becoming awash with colour, kind words and beautiful photos of smiling families, homely designed rooms and anything else that made Alice smile. Her Father's side, however, steadily darkened with sadness, dark, evil colours and sharp negativity until the collage almost resembled an opposites project.

Hearing his watch beep at him to notify him that he had a message from Kara announcing her arrival to collect Alice, Markus checked the time and frowned seeing that they'd run out of time to finish their work.

"Right. Kara is here for you Alice, our time is up I'm afraid." Markus spoke, some deep part of him feeling proud at the disappointment so visible on the otherwise reserved girl's face. "How about, between now and our next session, you make a list of words and images that remind you of Kara and your Father hmm? And we can discuss them and your collage next week since you've done so well with your collage so far?"

"Okay. Thank you, Markus." Alice replied softly, ever polite from a mixture of manners and a fear of punishment if she did otherwise. "May I wash my hands please?"

"Of course." he chuckled softly as he stood up, leading Alice over to the sink in the corner of the studio and stooping to position the footstool for her to safely reach the taps, hovering nearby with a towel to let her dry her hands before the pair of them headed out back into the main lounge area to where Kara was waiting for them.

Some ten minutes later, Markus returned to the studio to start cleaning up his materials, humming softly to himself as he packed away the magazines and other papers before returning the boxes to the corner of the room, dodging carefully round the still wet drawing on the floor before moving Alice's collage to a shelf to dry. He loved his job, it was days like this that he really felt like he was able to make a difference with people, that he could really do something to guide them through their problems. Every time he saw Alice grow and blossom as she became more comfortable and relaxed around him, and heard from Kara how she was starting to become more vocal and outspoken only made that solid warmth in his stomach bloom into a hot beam straight up into his heart that _yes_ , his methods were working.

"She grows more into herself every time I see her." Carl suddenly spoke, vocalising Markus' thoughts and jerking him out of his musings as he turned to face his Father. "You're doing well with her."

"Alice has seen too much for someone so young." he sighed, running his hand up over his face, scratching at his growing stubble then up over the close-cut buzz cut and round to massage against his nape. "It's encouraging to see her behaving more like a child."

"The world is always the cruellest to those who do not deserve it, Markus. Humanity is a flawed, self-destructive force and it is those who cannot get out the way quickly enough who take the brunt of its onslaught." Carl waxed lyrically, setting down his paintbrush as he rolled his chair to face his Son.

"Carl, careful or you'll start sounding like a Templar with phrases like that." Markus taunted, a soft smirk slipping across his lips as he moved to join his Father's side.

"Pah! Just because I can admit the problems with humanity does not mean I agree with their slavery ideals." Carl spat as he started to guide his wheelchair back out of the studio. "Come, Markus, I need a drink, and you can get me a double scotch for that insult."

Rolling his eyes, Markus followed his Father out of the studio and strolled across towards the mobile bar positioned next to the leather sofa that threatened to overwhelm the lounge area from its central spot opposite the huge thin bodied television. Taking a glass and the ornate decanter, Markus poured just over a finger of scotch before offering it to the elder male, ignoring the look of disdain on Carl's face at how little he was being allowed.

"You know the doctor would not approve of your scotch intake Carl." the younger man offered as a response before setting the decanter back in its place on the tray. "Now, what would you like for Dinner? I promised Leo I'd meet him for a few drinks later, would you care to join us?"

"I don't care what my doctor approves of. If I want a scotch I'll drink a damn scotch, he's already taken my cigars off me, I will not let him take my alcohol as well." Carl scoffed, swirling the tumbler gently in his fingers as he waited for the right moment to drink, one slender white eyebrow raising at the mention of his other son. "You are? No no that's fine. I'll only cramp you youngster's style, you go out and enjoy yourselves. It's nice to hear that you're both getting along."

"I wouldn't quite say we're getting along, but there's an attempt there at least. On both sides now." the therapist chuckled as he made his way across the lounge towards the kitchen area. "You wouldn't be out of place though Carl, I'm sure Leo would be glad to see you too."

"Nonsense. You won't make any progress on your relationship with me there. You both need to speak candidly." Carl replied from right behind him, Markus having not realised the elderly man was following him into the Kitchen.

"If you're sure. Now, what do you want for dinner? And don't say more scotch." Markus muttered anything Carl had been about to say lost beneath the clattering of pans and trays that Markus may or may not have done on purpose.

The request to meet Leo had come as quite a surprise to Markus the night before, his younger brother—or more correctly, his younger half-brother—had never particularly been fond of Markus ever since they met when Leo was sixteen. There was no real love lost between the two of them, they were like oil and water personality wise, and Leo just couldn't get rid of the chip on his shoulder at the idea that he wasn't Carl's legitimate child, despite the fact he often threw the fact he and Carl were the same skin colour in Markus' face. Casual racism aside, Markus had tried to understand the way his younger brother was feeling, he hadn't exactly had the best of upbringings.

Markus' mother had been married to Carl for nearly three years when she had their son and the painter had been ecstatic to finally have a child to love and raise with the woman he adored more than any in the world. But as his career expanded, so did his fandom, and the lure of fame and fortune soon pulled him under its spell until he was starting to neglect his wife and son in favour of painting all day and partying all night. It wasn't long until rumours about Carl's infidelity started to build up, and to her credit, his mother never let them bother her, he'd apparently been a bit of a player before they'd met, and despite his insistence that she'd reeled him in from all that, she'd always taken it with a pinch of salt. Yet whilst she could seemingly cope with his one night stands with various groupies, when it was uncovered that one of them had resulted in a pregnancy that Carl had refused to have anything to do with, that had been the final straw for her. His mother was an honest, upfront woman and Markus had only been nearing eleven years old, but he could understand well enough that she did not approve of the idea that Carl would deny a child the access to its father just because it was the result of one drunken night.

However, they hadn't quite managed to work through their issues in regards to their future. Markus had been strategically shipped out to a friend's house for the night whilst they discussed whether Carl would be in his new child's life or not, and consequentially whether the couple would remain married; his mother wanting the child to know his father, and equally for Markus to grow up with a positive role model of a father who didn't abandon his ' _mistakes_ ' or indeed refer to children he created as mistakes. But apparently Carl had rejected one too many calls from the new mother of his illegitimate child, and she'd had enough. With Markus safely out the way, the woman suffering with a broken heart, postnatal depression, exhausted and stressed from caring for a newborn by herself, had broken into the house in desperation to at least _talk_ to Carl about at least getting financial support, only to overhear the arguments the couple were having freely now they didn't have tiny ears to protect. Angered at the fact Carl wanted to ignore her son existed and had referred to him as a mistake, the woman had stormed in, gun in hand and offloaded all of her stress and despair with each squeeze of the trigger. Carl, who had, had his back to her, had taken a bullet to the shoulder that had knocked him forwards, before the second had sunk deep into his lower spine and sent him crumpling to the ground as it ripped all use of his lower half from him, but the bullets kept coming, and Carl had laid there paralysed and bleeding as his wife had been sprayed with almost the entirety of the magazine, her body collapsing just out of his reach, bullets embedded in her lungs, stomach and throat, her eyes wide and filled with pain as she stared at Carl. The painter unable to move to his wife's side to comfort her or to help apply pressure to her wounds, and had ended up laying there helplessly and watching her fade away.

Markus hadn't realised anything was the matter until the Police had turned up at his friend's house the next morning. By which time his mother was dead and his father was a paraplegic. Carl's impressive income had managed to pay for adjustments around the house, and despite the guilt consuming him and slowly breaking down the man he used to be, Markus never strayed from his side and quickly took on the role as his carer from the age of eleven, juggling his duties around his education. His social life had vanished, but Markus couldn't bring himself to care, all he could focus on was the fact that his father was still alive despite everything and as much as he missed his mother—and sometimes spitefully laid the blame for her death at Carl's feet—he knew how lucky he was to still have a parent in his life.

Of course, he had needed some form of expression and output for everything that was spiralling around his mind, and so Markus had tentatively started to paint. By this point his father was refusing to even look at his studio, never mind create any new masterpieces, and he didn't quite know if he was allowed in there, but Markus soon found that painting gave him such a powerful means of coping and departmentalising everything, and by the time Carl found him in the early hours one night swiping almost aggressively at a canvas, he had quite the collection of work piled up in one corner. As it was, that had been the catalyst Carl had needed to get himself out of his rut, and his time teaching Markus techniques as well as guiding him in the best way to put himself on display without everything being too raw to explain, had rekindled the need to create in his own body.

Maybe that was why Markus was so invested in art therapy as a medium of psychiatry because he knew from first-hand experience that things could be worked through safely, efficiently and healthily with art.

However, things hadn't been so easy to cope with for Leo. His mother, after being arrested for murder and attempted murder, had been sentenced to life in prison and he had been passed from foster home to foster home, growing up in care and never staying with one family for longer than a couple of years as his aggression and hatred towards the world only grew as he did. He was quickly branded a troubled child and soon was left at the halfway houses with no interest from potential families. At sixteen he'd sought out his father, and Carl and Markus had finally learnt what his name was, but Leo hated the way his father had never tried to find him, refused to accept his brother, and had despised any mention of help, claiming it was too little too late. Naturally, like most lost souls in current times, Leo had fallen down the rabbit hole that was narcotics. And nowadays he spent more time in and out of rehab for various drugs when he'd fallen off the wagon again and failed a detox program than he did at the government provided shelter he called his home.

That was why the contact had been such a surprise, last he knew, Leo was still in rehab for his latest binge. But he would never deny his brother a chance to meet up, despite everything Markus was still very much interested in a relationship with Leo, they had both lost their mothers through horrific circumstances, and whilst Leo was too young to remember anything, that kind of knowledge left an irremovable mark on your psyche. That's not to say Markus hadn't struggled to deal with the loss of his own mother, but even becoming Carl's constant carer had been like a walk in the park compared to Leo's isolation even if it was mostly self-imposed.

It had been one of the rare visits from Leo to the house, that Carl had sat them both down and explained about their true heritage. He had explained how he was one of many descendants in a long line of assassins, known as the Brotherhood, an ancient association that aimed to work from the shadows fighting those who posed a danger to humanity and who exploited earth's people, who fought to ensure the freedom of the population and their free will. Carl had gone into detail about "The Creed" which was apparently a set of rules that the brotherhood swore by, as well as warning them about an organisation known as the Templar Knights—Templar for short—who wished to ' _save_ ' humanity by taking away their free will and creating peace by control and the two had been at war for centuries. Carl had been a sworn member of the Brotherhood but had told his sons that he didn't want either of them to do so unless it was what they truly wished, he had warned them that to do so would paint a target on their backs which the Templar wouldn't think twice to aim at. Markus had been intrigued and done as much research as he could manage, and true to his opposite personality, Leo had refused to believe any of it and washed his hands of any mention of the brotherhood and promptly left.

But all that seemed to be behind them a few hours later as Markus laughed heartily at something Leo had just told him, pausing to drain the rest of his beer and set the glass down with a thunk, patting at his pockets for his wallet with the other hand before promptly stopping as Leo offered to get this round in. Agreeing happily, Markus settled back into his seat and retrieved his phone, giving Carl a quick message to update him on how the night was going and how Leo was doing, checking the man wasn't getting too drunk in his absence, but in his distraction he missed the slight of hand that had Leo dropping a few small white pills into the body of his drink, using how busy the bar was to get away with waiting for them to dissolve before returning to the table with their drinks and pushing the spiked one over towards his elder brother.

"Thanks, Leo." Markus smiled as he took a large mouthful, noting a small change in the taste but simply writing it off as being the end of the beer barrel when his brother made a similar face at his first swig, not realising it was a distraction tactic. "You know, I'm really glad you asked to meet up, I really do want us to have some kind of relationship."

"Yeah, totally man." Leo drawled, leaning back against the top of his chair and continued to drink at his own beer. "I'm just sorry it's taken me this long to get my head out my ass y'know?"

"No its fine, you've been through hell. I don't blame you at all." Markus managed to respond before he took another mouthful of his drink, opening his mouth to continue speaking before promptly closing it once again. Something felt off, his peripheral vision was starting to warp as if he were looking through a fisheye lens, and his eardrums were thrumming loudly with his pulse.

"Hey you okay bro?" he barely registered Leo's words as he wiped at his upper lip and swiped a slick layer of sweat away despite the air conditioning filtering through the bar, only really paying attention when his younger sibling moved round and hoisted him to his feet, holding his shoulders tightly as he looked concerned into his face.

"Y-Yeah...I...I think I just need some air." Markus stuttered, his limbs slack and unresponsive as he allowed Leo to tug his arm over his shoulders to prop him up before he was being walked out. He didn't understand what was happening, he hadn't had enough to drink to warrant this kind of reaction, but yet he was steadily getting more and more unsteady as the world tilted sidewards violently as they moved outside, so much so that Markus had to quickly grab onto Leo's shirt as he almost keeled over.

"Woah Jesus...God, you're heavy, they better hurry up." Leo muttered, tugging at Markus' arms to try and get him to slacken his grip. The words only confusing the drugged male as he tried to work out what Leo was on about. Who better hurry up? What was going on? Determined to find out, Markus groaned as he used his grip on Leo's shirt to push himself upright, the force unintentionally used causing the top buttons of his shirt to pop off and the material to fall open.

And the last thing Markus remembered was a sharp wave of confusion, recollection, fear and dread as the lack of buttons exposed the glinting silver chain settled in Leo's throat, holding a red square edged Maltese cross flush against his skin, before everything faded away and he was dropped unceremoniously to the floor as he slipped into unconsciousness.


End file.
